Missed Meetings
by barneyrockz
Summary: Due to a minor riding accident, Darcy is unable to make it to Pemberley in time to meet Elizabeth. Is a happy ending still possible for the two of them?


Darcy was quite lost in his thoughts as he rode through the Pemberley grounds. His mind was endlessly dwelling on the same thing it had for months now: Elizabeth Bennet. She haunted his every moment, whether waking or sleeping, damning him to misery. But what was there for him to do? She hated him and justly so. It was not likely that they should _ever_ meet again.

He was not paying attention to the road and missed the area of rough terrain just ahead of him. The horse was more aware and tried to navigate this danger but, as its master urged it faster, its foot landed in a small hole and the horse reared in fright. Darcy was flung from the saddle and landed in a rather undignified heap. Carefully the man checked himself for injuries, and was quite pleased to see that he had sustained none, other than some minor bruises. Since there was not a soul in sight, even his pride was unharmed.

His horse, however, was not quite so lucky. It may have only suffered a minor sprain in its ankle, but it was an injury and a hindrance nonetheless.

Darcy was forced to lead his horse the rest of the way, the trip going considerably slower than it would have had there not been that unfortunate hole in the ground.

After handing his horse to the groom to be looked after, Darcy continued up the path to the house. In the distance he could see a carriage driving up the drive and away from the house. It would seem that he had just missed some visitors. Not that it mattered much to him. He was hardly in a mood to deal with _anyone_ and had not been for some months.

His heavy steps soon took him up the front stairs and through the door. Mrs. Reynolds met him with a cheery smile and began to talk of recent events and of the guests who had just left Pemberley. Darcy hardly even pretended to listen.

"They were quite well-bred I must say, charming and polite. And there niece, Miss Bennet I believe her name was, was very—"

"Miss Bennet? What was her Christian name? Did you hear it?" That one name was enough to force Darcy from perfect indifference one second to excitement the next.

"Elizabeth, I believe."

"Elizabeth! She was here? At Pemberley? I missed her? Did they say where they were staying? How long they would be here?" His barrage of overwhelmed the poor housekeeper who could only stutter out a reply that she believed them to have left already. They mentioned something about the lakes.

That was it. He had missed her. And perhaps missed a chance to redeem himself and earn her affection. Yet, could he have striven to earn her affection and face the fear of rejection? Her first rejection had sent him into a self-destructive spiral. Another one would surely kill him.

One Year Later

He knew she was there, somehow he could feel it. Elizabeth Bennet was here, in London, at this particular ball and, most unfortunately, _not_ in his arms. At last he caught a glimpse of her: a flash of her chestnut locks, one look at her fine eyes. Then she was gone, spinning away back into the dancers and far out of sight.

Four Years Since Pemberley

She was married now, and living in London. This he knew. There had been far too many parties which brought them together, yet not nearly enough. She never saw him or, if she did, never approached him or acknowledged him in any way. And so he watched at the sidelines, hesitant to approach and fearful of another rejection.

Ten Years Since Pemberley

They say that time heals all wounds but, if that was true, why had not the hole in his heart been repaired? Perhaps it was because of his uncertainty that his heart still beat painfully inside his chest. Perhaps he did not want the pain to go away. Perhaps he was not yet ready to let go.

He had seen her many times but never had he spoken to her. They always seemed in the same place, but never near the other. Whether this was coincidence or design he could not say. And, if it was by design, whether it was her will or his was also a mystery.

Twenty Years Since Pemberley

He saw her again, across the room, watching in silence. The only difference between this and every other time was that, at last, his unwavering gaze was noticed. It was not Elizabeth who looked up to meet his eye but rather, her husband. Gently the man pulled her over to Darcy, also grabbing a common acquaintance and sought an introduction. Darcy managed to bow politely to her husband, but his eye found their way back to her rather quickly. Recognition flashed to her eyes as his name was said, but as soon as it appeared, it was gone once again.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Darcy."

Thirty Years Since Pemberley

It seemed as though Darcy had always been waiting at the sidelines; just watching as she lived her life, knowing he would never be a part of it. At long last he approached her, his aged body making his steps slow and heavy. No longer did he fear her rejection. Not now.

She waited for him to come; waited as his slow and painful steps crept ever closer to where she was. Finally he reached the spot where she lingered so impassively and bowed his head before her. He was overcome by immense emotion then and (his knees creaking in protest) he dropped down before her, a light mist of tears clouding his eyes.

"Dearest loveliest Elizabeth," he began not moving an inch from his vulnerable and despondent position, "I love you; did you ever really know that?" Closing his eyes, he could almost see the light blush that would shade her still lovely features and hear the small gasp she uttered. And, dare he hope, a slight upwards turn of her mouth that could almost be taken for a smile.

"I have _always_ loved you," he continued after receiving no reply. "And not once these long thirty years have you not been close to my mind. I wonder, my love, if I was awarded the same honor. Did you think of me at all during those long years? I know you cannot have thought of me as I did of you, but perhaps I crossed your mind once or twice. Do not you remember the poor unfortunate wretch who loved you so very deeply but did not understand how to express his feelings; the man you labeled the _last _man in the world you would ever marry?" He paused and turned his face up. "Perhaps not. You would not remember such an unpleasant experience. You would remember only the good times; the times that make you laugh. But what good times did we share? I have clung all these years to such a painful memory, while you, no doubt, have purged it from your mind." Here he paused again, reaching out his hand as though to touch her, until he realized what he was doing and regretfully pulled it back.

"Your husband is dead," he began again. "Did you cry at his funeral? Did you love him? Ah, here is a better question: did he love you? Did he love and cherish you as I would have? Does he love you still, though he is confined to eternal rest?" There was not a pause anywhere for answers. Though his words were directed to her, they were spoken more for himself. "It is getting late, my dear. Can you see the sun slowly dying as it falls behind the hill there? Night longs to surround us in her loving embrace as we gently drift away to a sea of dreams. Goodnight my dearest. Rest; rest in peace."

All around them—save for his soft footsteps on the earthen ground—the churchyard was silent.


End file.
